


The Gears of Life

by Quixotic_Punchline



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/F, M/M, also forgive me writing style ive been reading thackeray and the like XD, i have a mind to write some 40000 words for this, yall gotta bear with me this is gonna take a while
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-05-12 05:33:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19222630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quixotic_Punchline/pseuds/Quixotic_Punchline
Summary: So I essentially wanted to write up a backstory for Viktor's parents, because I think they have a lot of potential in terms of how they could affect his character development. So I'm writing this multichapter work on who they are, what they're like, and how they met before Viktor's birth. I'll then lead into some chapters on Viktor himself and his dynamic with Jayce (and how his time with his parents affected him).





	1. First Encounters

_It is with the greatest happiness, Master Selin, that I am finally able to write to you from Piltover, the city of…_

_The city of what?_ Vincent mused, as he trekked towards Southley Lane, a neighbourhood in which the most reputable members of Piltover’s mercantile families nested comfortably within the golden corridors and glass arches that defined the wealthy locale. As he passed the hextech-powered energy discs that revolved in languorous motions above the offices of the Guild, Vincent mulled seriously over the question, preferring to think of the many descriptive phrases he would include in the letter to his trades-master—or of the appropriateness of his modest suit and briefcase amidst the palatial splendour of the homesteads sprawled around him—anything else, in fact, instead of where he was actually headed. 

There was “the city of unimaginable innovation,” for one. _Master Selin, it is with the greatest happiness that I am finally able to write to you from Piltover, the city of unimaginable innovation…_ Unimaginable! How else to describe a place as breathtaking as this one, in which gilded designs and intricate engravings decorated each building, however large or small, stretching across the vast walls that reached implacably towards the open skies! Unimaginable! A city of unceasing iridescence, in which the sight of solar-driven clockwork, hundred-story towers that shimmered like the light-green sea, and the astounding number of hextech devices that littered the everyday haunts of the average Piltoverian—developments which were unthinkable in the grimy depths of Zaun—were merely the flourishes to something yet uncrafted, something even greater. Unimaginable! And yet here he was, in the shining centre of it all, in a city that seemed to turn the very axis of the world.

So absorbed was the young man in his rapidly churning thoughts that he hardly noticed when a beam of pale blue light rushed out from the underpass he was walking into; he paid no attention to the fact that a slender figure, wearing a streamlined metal contraption of what appeared to be hextech engineering, was literally being lifted at least two feet above the ground by the glowing blue pack; he had absolutely no inkling of their presence, even as they were being propelled at an alarming speed towards him, until he collided right into their path of flight, tumbling and dropping the briefcase that contained his blueprints while letting out a cry of surprise.

Do not blame our Vincent, dear reader, for he was nervous, you see; he had only recently been offered a position—by heavens, what an enviable position it was!—as an architect under the patronage of the famed Sir Mauvin Jonane, a tradesman who had built his fortune on good business sensibilities and an ability to navigate the trade routes to Shurima and Ionia with a nautical dexterity that eluded even the most experienced merchant-raiders. "Unbelievably good fortune this boy has!", Selin had remarked with his usual good cheer upon receiving a response to his letters of recommendation. Vincent remembered his fingers trembling with unfeigned excitement, as he carefully removed the Jonane family seal—an eagle snapping a serpent into two with its talons—from the back of the velvet-coloured envelope. He remembered feverishly scanning through the neatly-curled Q’s and slanted L’s—Sir Jonane had a mind to assert his superior rank over the newly-graduated apprentice by writing his letter on gold-laced paper imported from Ionia, though Vincent was too kind a person and too overjoyed by his acceptance to notice such a slight by a figure of the upper crust—in search of a formal admission of patronage. When his eyes met with the much-desired line, Vincent had experienced an indescribable but wonderful glow warm his chest; he could not help the mixture of tears and laughter that soon poured forth from this state of euphoria. (Years later, Vincent would describe this moment as the third greatest thing that had fallen upon him). 

Selin had seen the boy off with nothing but well-wishes and a large tin of home-cooked food (a present from the Missus, he had replied with a sigh); and though the old man roared words of encouragement to the delighted young architect, the bemused passer-by would have noticed that he had lingered just a little too long at the entrance to the city, and had wiped his eyes with a dusty handkerchief from time to time as he watched Vincent’s figure grow smaller and fainter against the lights of the ever-shining city, leading one to believe (and rightly so!) that the poor, childless Master Selin was deeply saddened by the leave of his favourite student from his humble hovel in Zaun. 

But Vincent was too caught up in the commingling of ecstasy and anxiety to have noted this hidden demonstration of fatherly emotion; in fact, as he lay, groaning under the weight of what was likely a person with a rather heavy machine on their back, Vincent was in no state of mind to contemplate the exact expressions of farewell made by his absent master. His side, bruised from the fall, ached as he shifted and tried to raise himself. He was met with a pair of unusually bright amber eyes. He gasped as he realized the eyes were attached to a face—an unusually stunning face, to be sure—that seemed to rest quite comfortably on his lapel. It was the face of a young woman, who peered at him closely from behind the greenish tint of her goggles. Dazed by what exactly was happening to him on what was one of the most important days of his life thus far, Vincent cleared his throat awkwardly. The young woman did not move—in fact, she did not blink once in the long minute that elapsed between these two entangled individuals. Vincent, by this time quite out of his usually accommodating demeanour, decided to charge headfirst into the uncertain confrontation that awaited him. 

“Would…would you mind getting off of me for a moment?” 

There was a rustle of skirts as the young woman rolled easily off of our incredibly flustered protagonist. As Vincent quickly sat about packing the blueprints that had been escaped from his briefcase, the woman brushed back her goggles, straightened her unruly plait of jet-black hair, and glanced at some of the drafts scattered at her feet. 

“Are you an engineer?” She casually picked up and sifted through some diagrams. “I’m an inventor. These are some odd designs, by the way. Very…unlike what you see around you.” She grinned. “Perhaps too stylized for most of the people here.”

“I’m an architect.” Vincent replied, slightly deflated by the bluntness with which the woman remarked on his future career. “I suppose Zaun’s style doesn’t sit very well with Piltover’s residents.”

“You’re a Zaunite?” the young woman’s eyes widened— _good heavens!_ thought Vincent, _but she has such unusually bright eyes!_ —as she scrambled to her feet. “Well it is just my luck today! Fancy meeting a real Zaunite in the nicest part of town!” And one,” she laughed, her voice echoing crisply off of the empty bridge’s metal underbelly, “who walks exactly like a Piltoverian!”

“What on earth could you possibly mean by that?”

“Well, if you live here long enough, you start to realize that every Piltoverian scientist is so absorbed by his self-proclaimed genius that he hardly notices anything around him. He walks with a slouch and a grimace, like he’s just swallowed whatever fluids your Chem-barons decide to inject in their veins to look as…supple and graceful as they do. And he hardly acknowledges your presence, if you’re an ordinary person without a patent to your name, as if to say that _this_ ”—here she tapped her temple several times—“is worth more than all the gold in the City Treasury!” 

“And…you think I, a foreigner, resemble those people?”

“It’s not a compliment, for sure,” she replied, dusting off her skirt. “But it’s a good warning. You must be ambitious and ready to carve out your own nook in this grand city, no?” Vincent had opened his mouth to respond, but was struck silent by the unexpected vehemence with which she spoke. “Then let this be a reminder of what you don’t want to become in this place. These”—she waved the drafts in her hand to emphasize her point—“will only end up being the fuel for your literal fire if you lose yourself to the idea of coming here for success. After all, for every one of _you_ , there are a hundred other hextech-nourished “geniuses” who ignore their surroundings and walk into things on these streets.” With every inflection of her accent, the woman’s amber eyes flashed angrily. What could our poor architect do at this moment but listen in mute confusion, as this fiery inventor (for inventor she most certainly was, judging by the way she expertly tweaked the dials covering the hextech-powered contraption that criss-crossed her body) poured these words, like a vial of flare powder discharging its substance into a hextech-amplification charger, into his stunned ears? What could he possibly have thought of at this moment, when she suddenly relaxed her tirade, and smiled once again on the bewildered individual at her feet?

“Phew! I’m done speaking on that topic for the day. My apologies for giving you an entire lecture to digest. These are some interesting drafts, though. You must come by and chat with me more sometime. I’d love to discuss your work, and what Zaun has to say about our city.” She began poring over a paper that read, _Fixing the Structural Weaknesses in Zaun’s Interstitial Construction_ —a piece which Vincent had taken great pains to submit to Zaun’s Civilian Council, though this unfortunately stirred no action on their part—seemingly forgetting Vincent’s presence entirely. Vincent, who had by this time collected the majority of his scattered portfolio, was yet unable to collect his scattered wits. We have stated previously that Vincent had a kindly character, one that was often predisposed to accommodate the interests of his peers. He was a quiet worker who rarely talked about his own achievements, preferring instead to turn to introspection, or yet take pleasure in the lighthearted chatter of others. But even with his humility, the course of the conversation thus far allowed him to conclude that demureness was not going to get him anywhere with the mercurial speaker who faced him. And so he rallied his spirits, and charged once again into the skirmish of unwanted dialogue. 

“I don’t know what exactly you are trying to get at. Why…why are you saying all of this? I mean, I will apologize for running into you, but I have to say, I don’t understand why you would give me such warnings, as if this place is somehow terrible for people like me. Is it…is it only because I’m from Zaun?” Vincent felt his face grow red. Not a few times during his apprenticeship did Vincent hear from peers, returning from their studies at the Piltover Collegiate, that Piltoverians had a knack for patronizing behaviour, and it struck him that perhaps he was now undergoing the same experience of embarrassment and hurt that they did in those other occasions. “Is it because you see me as nothing more than a…a _thing_ from Zaun that you tell me this, that you ask me to tell you what “Zaunites who walk like Piltoverians” think of this city?” Now it was the woman’s turn to look surprised at this outburst of feeling. “To be honest, I thought this city was beautiful. I thought it was something that I could dream about for days, even months on end. I never thought that I would receive this sort of welcome from its citizens.” Vincent held out his hand for the remaining drafts that the woman had been reading.

“I-I didn’t mean anything by it, honest…” The woman slowed her speech, searching for the right words. “I suppose what I meant was that…that you shouldn’t think too much of using your talent purely for advancement…into those “reputable scientific circles,” like the “geniuses” I was talking about.” She laughed, though her smile did not reach her eyes this time.

“And what does it matter if I do?” Vincent shot back. “You don’t get to mock someone who might just want that as their dream. And you yourself seem to want to advance somewhere in life, don’t you? Isn’t that why you…why you built that in the first place? Just to show others that you _can_?” Vincent took a deep breath and glanced at the humming device with some interest. It appeared to be a oval metal pack, fastened to the young woman’s body by faded brown straps with wires peeking out at various angles. Knobs and buttons circled outwards from the centre of the pack, which contained a hextech battery, the source of the sapphire aura that had previously enveloped the woman during her experiment. Being the architect as he was, our dear Vincent could not help but be intrigued by the pack’s sleek design; the glare of its chrome surface was unlike anything he had yet seen in Piltover. He was about to ask the woman about the device, when he realized that her bright amber eyes were staring at him with an intensity that outshone the vividness of the pulsing hextech core. _She’s crying,_ Vincent thought, astonished by the shift his words had produced on her character.

“A-are you alright? I—” 

“No, no, you _understand!_ ” Here the young woman clasped her hands—still holding the crumpled blueprints—around Vincent’s free hand. “You really _understand!_ Ah, I was wrong about you! Please forgive me!” She beamed, tears flowing freely now. “I thought—I thought you were just another self-absorbed technomaniac, but I was wrong! I am so grateful—yes! truly grateful!—to have met you!” 

If the woman had punched Vincent’s bruised rib in this moment, he would have been less surprised by such an action than at the emotional change that had come over her yet again. Somehow, amidst these cries of gratitude, he eventually managed to take his blueprints, free his hand, and hurriedly answer the questions that made their way past her sobbing. Yes, he had been put off by her remarks. No, he didn’t hold them against her. ( _At the end of the day, she’s still a complete stranger,_ Vincent sighed. _No use feeling angry over someone you will never see again._ ) Yes, he had other business to attend to at the moment, hence his arrival in the area. When he made this last statement, the woman nodded solemnly, her eyes sparkling like gems, and ran in the opposite direction as quickly as she had entered the underpass, leaving only the afterimage of blue streaks in the air as she went. Vincent, as if emerging from a dream, turned and continued to stumble along the avenue leading to Southley Lane, contemplating the strangeness of the Piltoverian he had just met. 

_Master Selin, I write to you from Piltover, the city of progress, about an extraordinary_ —no, unimaginable— _encounter that I had this morning…_


	2. Another First Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the overly ornate 19th-century style writing continues XD

By the time he had reached the sprawling domicile of Sir Jonane (House No. 50, West Southley Lane), Vincent had mentally composed a generally complete missive to Master Selin, complete with details about the city he had seen thus far, as well as his own opinions of the _surprising_ examples of individuals who made their homes in the city of progress. As he stood before the imposing double-doors of Sir Jonane’s residence—the doors, as the venerated merchant liked to tell his fellows at the Society, were presents from a famed Ionian carpenter, who had been employed in the service of both charitable monasteries and less-than-charitable state ambassadors—Vincent felt compelled to leave a large space in the remainder of his letter to describe the particulars of the affluent household that awaited him. Taking a deep breath, he took up the heavy gold-plated knocker, which had been forged into the image of the family crest, and allowed three resounding knocks to fall against the oaken entrance. 

A man with greying streaks in his neatly-combed hair answered the door. He was dressed in a black suit, with gold braids tucked neatly behind his lapels. The same eagle-serpent crest had been embroidered on a velvet band that was draped across his right arm. The man carried himself with a composure and gravity which suggested to Vincent that this must be the patriarch of the place. Vincent, following this line of judgement, quickly bowed before the man, introduced himself formally as “Vincent Brandew, architect and recent apprentice to Master Selin Klaxon,” and pulled out a small ivory box from a side-bag attached to his belt.

“Sir Jonane, I wish to thank you for your kindness and hospitality. I hope to serve you and your family to the best of my ability, and make great progress in the fields of architecture and hextech development. Please accept this small gift on my behalf, as I cannot express my gratitude enough for your patronage.”

With this short speech finished, Vincent blushed and stood back. Ah, dear youth! Which of us has not been placed in such a situation in our prime, where the expectations of so many dreams—some belonging to us, some given to us by the peers and mentors whom we respect and cherish—weigh painfully upon our shoulders, so much so that we are made painfully aware of our every movement and check every expression of self-doubt and worry, all to avoid making some fatal error of impression on the society that has momentarily extended its attention to our lowly stations in life? The man at the door, who stood as motionless and severe as a tombstone during this short presentation, must have been familiar with such trials of youthful ambition, for he gave a faint smile of sympathy when he saw Vincent’s flushed and discomfited demeanour. 

“Mr. Brandew,” he said, returning the box to Vincent’s trembling hands. “You are mistaken when you call me Sir Jonane. My name is Clemence, and I am merely the overseer of my lord’s establishment.” Noticing the architect’s panicked expression, our Clemence gently patted Vincent’s arm. “A minor social blunder, not to worry. Though I am certainly in a better humour after hearing a talented architect mistake me for a much worthier man—were you not so straightforward an individual yourself, I certainly would have allowed you to continue calling me ‘sir.’” He took Vincent’s suitcase in a neat white glove. “Please follow me. My lord is absent at the moment, as he is away on some business matters. However, we have already prepared a room for you, if you would like to rest before he arrives.” Vincent bowed again, his face now a deep crimson, thanking the man for his generosity. Clemence, breaking his stoicism for what was perhaps the first time in a good decade, laughed good-humouredly at the innocence of the young man. “Mr. Brandew,” he replied. “There is no need to show a servant such courtesy. Think of the outcry if Sir Jonane returns to see Selin Klaxon’s prized pupil scraping before his butler! But I do not say this out of mischief—I am simply humbled by how openly you wear your honesty on your sleeve.” And with this personally uncharacteristic expression of paternal fondness, Clemence gave another encouraging pat on Vincent’s shoulder, and led him into Jonane’s long marbled hall. 

What a sight to behold! Treasures from every corner of Runeterra! There were stone statues from Shurima that stood ten feet in length, transported to the cargo holds of Jonane’s galleys via laborious archaeological digs; perfumed headdresses, decorated with the symbols of the Ionia's local gods, littered every inch of the chiseled walls; ruby-studded gold chains were wound around beautifully woven captain’s uniforms—the sight of such wonders would have intimidated even the most experienced of Valoran’s travellers. 

“Marvellous, isn’t it? The Jonanes pride themselves on their seafaring distinction, hence the master’s inclination to display his most noteworthy souvenirs for the distinguished guests who stay under his roof. As my lord prefers not to have hextech security devices near his collections, these artefacts are instead protected by the same purified glass steel that is used in the Treasury’s offices. Personally, I find the Ionian collection to be the most praiseworthy in terms of craftsmanship, as my lord’s trading interests have garnered much goodwill from certain craftsmen in that nation.”

Vincent nodded mutely at Clemence’s tour, his mind giddy with excitement at the spectacles that passed before his eyes. 

“And here, we have the Jonane family’s portrait gallery.” Clemence announced, his voice reverberating off of the domed interior through which they were walking. 

A long line of hand-painted portraits and photographs, displaying the line of Jonanes as they moved from merchants’ aides to powerful mercantilists over the course of the century, were set in jewelled silver frames. Thickly mustached men and stern, overdressed women glared at Vincent with cartoonishly puffy faces. _Master Selin would find a laugh in that,_ thought Vincent, noting these details for his letter. As he was about to follow Clemence out of the hall, he was struck by the sight of two unusually bright amber eyes. They belonged to the photo of a young woman, clad in a violet evening gown, with a long black plait bound by a matching violet ribbon. Vincent recognized the same fiery eyes that had glistened with joy, anger, and tears before him just hours earlier. In the picture, the young woman’s eyes possessed a defiance that seemed to imbue her still features with an eerie vivacity. She was standing beside a man in green, who had the same dark hair and angular face, but light blue eyes. An older man was seated in an ornately carved chair at the centre of the photo, his heavy frame filling all available space between the two young people. He was dressed in a silk maroon coat, and clutched at a cane that was looped by glowing wires and tubes. A gold pin, featuring a gear placed within a half-crescent moon, rested prominently on the older man’s chest. The scene was one of palpable tension; even without knowing the circumstances surrounding the photo, Vincent felt uneasy at witnessing this gathering of family members who, to even an untrained eye, very clearly despised the presence of the others. 

“Mr. Clemence?” 

“Yes, Mr. Brandew?” replied Clemence, who had not heard himself addressed so respectfully throughout his entire time at the Jonane household. 

“Mr. Clemence…may I ask who the people in this photo are?” 

“Well, Mr. Brandew, this is the Elusia family. Patriarch Elusia is a close friend of Sir Jonane’s. These two are his children. His son, Carley, is a merchant’s apprentice, under my lord’s patronage. His daughter, Ilsa, is— 

“Butler, what is this person doing here?” a shrill voice pierced the air. Both Vincent and Clemence spun around to see a woman with an absurdly tall head of braided hair standing on a staircase that was visible from the portrait hall. 

“My Lady Jonane, this is Vincent Brandew, the renowned architect whom my lord has requested to lead the construction of the new headquarters for the Naval Offices.”

“Ah, and where might you be from?” she asked, scornfully eyeing the faded blue suit that Vincent was wearing.

“From Zaun, Lady Jonane.” Vincent bowed. 

“Do you know much about Sir Jonane’s lineage?” she asked, her gown sweeping majestically behind her as she descended the steps. “You seem to be quite absorbed in those pictures.” 

“I…know only as much as Master Selin was able to obtain in the form of Piltover’s Civilian Records, Lady Jonane.” Vincent admitted, quickly backing away from the photos. 

“ _Oh?_ ” Madame bristled. 

This elicited a kind chuckle from Clemence, who was secretly delighted by the effect that the boy’s unassuming honesty had produced on his mistress, who, in his opinion, was quite full of hot air when it came to discussing the “family lineage” (after all, the Jonane family had only _recently_ been raised from civilian status to honorary members of Piltover’s titled families, a fact that Lady Jonane was wont to overlook in her pride). “And was it an edifying experience, to peruse the background of my… lately-advanced lord and husband?” sniffed the lady. 

“It was definitely…a grand project.” Vincent replied, blushing once again. 

“I should like to think so! Had the entirety of your Zaun possessed a quarter of the wealth that my lord does at the moment, perhaps impudent young men would not have to ask for undeserved advantages from the tables of Piltover’s highest families.”

A sudden chill descended upon the hall, one that was, unfortunately, not effected by any climatical means.

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” Clemence spoke sharply. “But I have been informed by my lord that Mr. Brandew has been employed for a task that will demonstrate the prestige of the Jonane name. I must venture to say that he has been accepted on the basis of his talents alone, and—”

“As always, the servant defends his kind!” Lady Jonane interposed with ridicule in her voice. “Am I to believe that you are to have any say in the opinions of a lady of rank? I don’t expect a person of your station to remember all of the good that we have provided you, just as we of Piltover have done for the likes of Zaun, but I will stand by my _principles_ —principles that have been carried in _my_ family for generations. And my _principles_ state that great care must be taken around Zaunites, who are known to steal, and take pleasure in poisoning our children’s dishes with their chem-tech, and have disreputable associations with all sorts of beggars and lechers. In fact, not much separates the likes of you from the other social lowlifes in this house,” she concluded, glaring at Clemence. 

In that moment, Vincent wished he were once again facing the enigmatic volatility of the young inventor; her banter now seemed like the delicious music of angels, in comparison to this unfounded tirade of hatred! He rubbed his forehead wearily, and gave another bow towards the lady’s general direction. 

“Lady Jonane,” Vincent replied, his head swimming from the stings of the lady's insults, “Even though…I am grateful to your husband…let me say this much. If Zaun had a quarter of the wealth that you are lucky enough to live under, it would be flourishing far beyond what Piltover could ever hope to aspire to. This is because Zaun’s principles motivate people to be industrious and resourceful, regardless of how…how Piltoverians like you or any inventor flying about on these streets desire to speak to us.” With this, Vincent numbly followed the rigid-faced Clemence out of the hall. He did not hear the shrieks of “Zaunite filth!” that flew past his ears, because he was too busy looking at his shoes—old shoes that he had saved and from which he had painstakingly scrubbed handfuls of tar for such a meeting with his benefactors; shoes that seemed to make him and his achievements very insignificant amidst the piles of gold relics that lined the halls; shoes that seemed to laugh at him and say, _what could you have possibly been thinking? Telling that young woman that her warnings were wrong, when you can see clearly what advancement does to a person in these parts, while you labour with ideals of grandeur and shoes that pinch just a little too tightly for comfort!_ ; shoes, which in the deepest recesses of his heart, seemed to justify every jeer of poverty that had been flung upon his head before he had been taken in by Master Selin, before the old man had ever seen the child working in the Sump, scrambling between smokestacks that hacked up clusters of toxic phlegm. The wonders of Piltover did not seem so wonderful now, as he felt these terrible pangs of shame and regret. Even when Clemence ushered him into his modest room, which contained a bed, two chairs, and a desk filled with bronze-lined measuring tools, reams of paper, and a board on which to study his blueprints, Vincent hardly stirred. Clemence, seeing the state of our poor architect, felt a rage begin to bubble beneath his cool front, something that had not happened, my dear reader, for a good decade. 

“It’s alright, Mr. Clemence.” Vincent smiled weakly. “I hope I didn’t get you into trouble. I…I do like this room. It’s very homey.” Clemence knew that Vincent had been boarded in the most unassuming room in the house, and now felt guilty at having carried out his lord’s instructions the previous night. “Thank you, Mr. Clemence. You’ve been very nice to me.” Vincent silently began to unpack his notes and few changes of clothes, avoiding the gaze of the now-furious manservant. 

“Mr. Brandew,” Clemence’s voice quivered, as he struggled to speak calmly. “I make no excuses for my lady. It is one thing to speak to a servant with her disgraceful language, but it is an entirely different matter to abuse an independent person who has lent his time to the lot of this family name! I won’t stand for this. To watch a boy, thirty years my junior, being treated like _this_ —” He would have continued, with a great sprinkling of expletives perhaps, had he not caught sight of the poor architect weeping quietly over the tinned meal that Master Selin—good Master Selin!—had brought him. Memories of the old master’s care must have flooded through his state of humiliation, shaking that tired frame with cries that definitively broke through the remnants of Clemence’s usual aloofness. He quickly helped the sobbing youth onto a chair, alternating between murmurs of reassurance and eloquent curses against the mistress of the house. When the two had calmed down, Clemence gently patted Vincent’s arm, and left the room for a moment. He returned with a tray containing spiced vegetables atop an entire steamed gutterfish. “I had prepared it earlier, so it may be slightly cold,” Clemence remarked. Vincent shook his head, and offered him the pickled ivy and grilled meats from Master Selin’s tin. As they ate together in that small room, they spoke of many things: what the food was like in Zaun, Clemence’s brothers and sisters (all twelve of them grown and out in the world, he declared with some pride), Vincent’s work as an architect, and every other matter that was important to two lonely individuals in a city that seemed to pulse with innumerable but intangible connections. 

When the city’s artificial daylight hummed to life that evening, Clemence encouraged Vincent to get some sleep, for it would be only a matter of hours before Sir Jonane would return from his trip. Vincent lowered his head at the mention of the name.

“Are you still interested in working for the Jonanes? I could persuade my lord to give you a recommendation elsewhere in the city, somewhere friendlier than what my wretched lady offered today.” Vincent did not respond, his hands clasping and unclasping nervously. He took a deep breath and looked out the window; outside, an entire constellation of pure electric light glimmered from the peaks and crags of Piltover's finest buildings. The faint notes of laughter and music drifted from a nearby house. It was a cool, refreshing night, one that was illuminated by the fruits of engineering and the knowledge that tomorrow would always bring something new, something _better_. 

“No, it’s fine.” Vincent’s tone grew firm. “I’ve decided. I…I want to deliver on my promise to Master Selin…and myself. I want to use this chance to learn more about my trade and this city. Do you know, Mr. Clemence? A long time ago, I thought out a plan for my future. It's silly when I say it out loud now, though." Clemence nodded encouragingly. Vincent took another deep breath. "I'd always wanted to get to Piltover, no matter what—not because I wanted to escape Zaun, but because I wanted to know why everything was so _different_ between our cities. Why does Piltover flourish so widely—in commerce, technological advancements, social life and inter-city communication—in short, in _everything?_ Why does Zaun burrow deeper into itself, and forget there is a world _up there_ that it can still reach for? How can I help Zaun become like Piltover, not necessarily in the technology it ultimately decides to rely upon or its particular worldview, but...but in terms of how it can become stronger and safer? I then decided that if I am able to have my designs accepted and refined here, approved by the most educated people and passing the most rigorous experimental tests in Piltover, and if I can use this experience to its fullest potential...I can eventually learn how to produce reliable and beautiful infrastructure. And I can use this knowledge to help Zaun improve its buildings, bridges, and the like.” In the moonlight, Vincent’s eyes sparkled as he gave breath to his confession, however simple it may have been to a more cynical observer.

“That is a very honourable goal, Mr. Brandew, one that should not invite doubt into your position. Rest assured that the Jonanes of this city do not have a _quarter_ of the good intentions and motivation that you possess.” Vincent smiled at Clemence’s jesting goodwill. 

“Thank you for everything, Mr. Clemence.” 

Clemence nodded, and soon left the room with the empty dishes. Vincent lay on his bed, gazing at the twinkles of glass and electric light outside his window. As he was settling into sleep, he heard the door creak open. It was Clemence, holding a mug of dark aromatic liquid. 

“Sweetmilk, Mr. Brandew, such as I made for my younger siblings when they were children.”

As the door closed for the final time that night, and Vincent sipped slowly on the delicious drink, he wrote out his letter to Master Selin. He closed with these lines: 

_Yet despite everything, I want to say, Master Selin, that while we may find comfort in the predictable motions of cogs and gears, and an aura of perfection in the steel and hextech of Piltover, I believe that it is the warmth of human kindness and compassion that should be most cherished, for it is these that have made me want to press forward, ever forward, in this shining city._


	3. Multiple Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter, in which I mainly create setup for the following chapters. Tried my best to create believable scientific jargon (probably failed XD but I consider this a work in progress--I just want to get all of the many ideas that I have down first before I really edit this first draft).

Sir Jonane was slightly more tolerable than his wife.

Only slightly.

“Yes, it’s unfortunate that my dear wife would treat you so harshly, my boy. I will have a word with her, of course, but you must understand that a _dainty_ thing like her would have had no choice but to react to the shocking presence of a Zaunite in the way that she did. You see, my boy, there are not many people in the world like your humble patron. Most people are not as well-travelled, or well-read, or well-connected as a successful merchant of the seas, hence their tendency to lapse into old prejudices and unintended outbursts of sentiment. Perhaps in twenty years, Piltover as a whole will be open-minded enough to have Zaunites studying and contributing plans to its Collegiate, but we’ll both be out of our prime by that time, hey?” All the while, the middle-aged man was absorbedly examining the contents of the ivory box that Vincent had mistakenly handed to Clemence the day before. A small replica gramophone, made of bright green glass, lay on a transparent case that displayed the smooth metal gears within. As he fiddled with the lever attached to the case, a click was heard from the gramophone’s mouth. Slowly, the gears began to whirr to life. A tune tinkled lightly from the box, its cadences cheerful but yearning.

“It’s a song the workers used to sing on their way back from the factories.” Vincent explained shyly. “Tinkering with miniatures is one of my hobbies.”

“Hm!” Sir Jonane grunted with satisfaction. “I certainly see value in your workmanship, my boy, hence my desire to bring you out of an _undesirable_ situation in Zaun. But I also remember that we are not entirely equals. I do not pine for your condition in life, and assume that I am in a condition that invites your applause. It’s all quite simple. We could even call it unjust, if we as a human species were of a more selfless character. Really,” here he loudly tapped the table with his manicured nails. “One must realize that it is this ability to separate such personal interests from the reality of our circumstances that allows individuals to attain new heights in this city.” 

As Vincent was listening to this lecture—watching the rotund figure of the respected merchant pace back and forth in the morning light that streamed through the coloured glass of the study’s windows, noticing the way that he fiddled with his well-groomed mustaches every ten paces, trying his utmost not to take to heart the flippancy with which his patron spoke of Zaunites in Piltover—he was glad to have found a friend in Clemence, who stood at the door, grimacing at every questionable statement that his master uttered under those black whiskers (our Clemence found his face to be quite sore afterwards).   

 “But all of this can be remedied very easily. You are to begin work immediately on the new Naval Offices. You are to go to the harbour this afternoon and inspect the area. You have blueprints for the finished piece, yes?” His heart drumming with anticipation, Vincent pulled out a folder that contained the many drafts he had accumulated since his reception of Jonane’s letter. Being, however, a man who did not spare unnecessary energy on the finer points of a task if he knew someone else was already responsible for its execution, our worthy lord flipped through the papers with half-lidded eyes, never pausing to consult our young architect on any of the precious plans in his possession.

“Good, good, these look fine. Well, I’m sure they will be fine once we actually get you on the spot. All I want is a stately building, one that has all the ornamentation appropriate for the position of a Piltoverian peer. Make yourself busy, my boy, and put those talents to decent use in our city! Ah, that brings me back to those days!” Our mighty merchant sauntered to the sideboard, where he downed another large glass of reddish liquor—“imported from the finest breweries in Bilgewater,” he announced grandly. (Vincent noticed that his “venerable patron” spoke more freely after he had downed his third glass).

“When I was your age, my boy, I only had small change in my pocket. Never would I have dreamed that I would see the great wonders of Valoran. Why, only the other day, I met Lord Skipper on my way to the Gentleman’s Club, and we talked a great deal about the collectability of Ionian paintwork. There was this one painting that I remember from my youth—I think you may have heard of it; it’s a famous painting and I have an excellent memory—called the Shiri…Shisiu…Shi-something-or-the-other. It’s hard to remember exactly, my memory is getting hazy at my age. Anyways, I’m not a painter myself; I’m merely a collector. Though you should have seen how those Ionians clutch at the smallest things! They would fight you tooth and nail for the measliest mosaics, as you weave and dodge their fire on the rumbling waves. Ah, the stuff of nightmares and adventures!”  

Our great and wise master of the seas would have continued to ramble about his surely-fruitful encounters with Ionian civilians defending their possessions from rapacious Piltoverian merchants, had not Clemence hurriedly reminded this unmatched interlocutor that since the grand sire had another business appointment that evening, it would be best if Mr. Brandew was allowed to inspect the premises as soon as possible, such that he would be able to return to pore over the matter that evening. 

“Ah, yes, there’s a suggestion. Not one that I would endorse under _usual_ circumstances, mind you. I do agree with my darling wife on asserting one’s _principles_ towards servants and the like—they should be ignored as frequently as possible—but seeing as I am occupied with other business tonight, Brandew, I will give you the honour of treading upon the Naval Office several hours earlier than I had originally planned. Clemence can show you the way.” With this, Vincent and Clemence were dismissed.

Outside, both men breathed sighs of relief.

“Quite a… _stuffy_ atmosphere in there, isn’t it?” asked Clemence, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples.

“Yes,” Vincent leaned against the cool wooden frames set in the corridor. “I didn’t expect much in terms of his attitude towards Zaunites, but I’m glad that he had the good sense to have you introduce me to the harbour instead of going with me himself.”

“I still apologize for my lord’s conduct.” Vincent smiled awkwardly. He was painfully aware of Clemence’s repeated efforts at ameliorating the difficulties presented by the Jonanes, and was all too grateful for his company. He only hoped that Clemence would not feel obligated to continue bearing the burden of these interactions. Vincent, not yet familiar with the ritual of reciprocal quarrelling that was meted out by both servant and master, felt not a few twinges of shame at seeing Clemence offer his own neck to the blades of the Jonanes’s “principles” in the architect’s defence. He would find an opportunity to speak with Clemence on the matter.

But such concerns soon left his mind. Vincent, after all, was young and happily awed by the sight of wonderful things, something that Piltover was still able to offer to his curious disposition. This is hardly to say that he had forgotten the gravity with which he had spoken of his goals to his good companion the previous night; however, which of us has not subjected even our greatest miseries, however momentarily, to the pleasurable calm that accompanies the experience of novelty? We may be wretches without a penny or friend to our names, but even we are still susceptible to that intoxicating leap of imagination brought about by the sight of something _unexplored_ —the possibilities hidden within the contours of that fresh landscape sparkle under the rays of exuberant renewal, so they say. Guilty we may be of such self-delusion, but we continue to view the world with our guises of irreproachable innocence!

The long ride to the harbour by hexrail thus began as a pleasant journey. Clemence, wearing a grey coat that hid his household uniform ( _they wouldn’t let us on otherwise, considering the “indecency” of travelling publically under my lord’s rank_ , Clemence had explained, after agreeing to Vincent’s desire to travel via Piltover’s city transport), proved to be as knowledgeable about Piltover’s general development as the minutiae of the household he ran, and gave our eager architect innumerable details about the novel scenes that they passed. He pointed out the mechanisms that allowed the hexrail to maintain its consistent speed on a minimal basis of energy, discussed the history behind the founding of Piltover’s Collegiate, and explained the layout of the different districts (according to rank, occupation, and wealth) that made up Piltover’s residential grid system. Vincent, impressed as he was by the sheer amount of knowledge that Clemence possessed, could not help but batter his senior with questions along the way.

“What’s that oval-shaped building, Mr. Clemence?” The train had stopped momentarily. A shabbily-dressed old man entered the train, teetering from side to side as he murmured to the stony-faced passengers. Clemence glanced warily at the man before turning his attention to the architect’s question.

“That is the Centre of Runic Studies. It was built two decades ago, and has undergone numerous renovations due to its initial structural deficiencies. However, it is now one of the most advanced facilities in Valoran, with links to many Shuriman and Ionian archaeological sites. There are, as far as I am aware, many replicas of Shuriman architecture and their runic engravings on display as well.”

“Is it open to non-researchers?” Vincent asked, barely containing his excitement. The train was speeding rapidly away from the reflective dome. 

“Yes, Mr. Brandew. Rest assured you will be able to enter and go as you please in the first four levels of the building.” 

“That’s great to hear!” Clemence smiled at the young man’s enthusiasm. “ _Oh!_ ” he cried, loud enough to startle the old man in his slow procession. His steely eyes fixed on the two. “Is that the hextech battery plant? I’ve heard so much about it in Zaun!”

“You are correct. It is rumoured that Piltover’s most influential clans are deciding upon the potential mass-production of hextech products for overseas use. However, judging by the fact hextech cores only seem to reach optimal operation when used in conjunction with a consistent supply of oxus, the main mineral found in abundance within Piltover’s outlying mines, I assume that such a goal has the additional intention of declaring an aspect of Piltover’s political influence over areas that must rely on Piltoverian oxus supplies. Though I personally think that such a declaration has the added effect of enticing a Noxian invasion sometime in the future.” Vincent could not help but smile wryly at the usual dryness with which Clemence made this grim observation, though he did not notice the venom with which Clemence glared at the mumbling figure staggering towards them.

“And…have _you_ ever worked with hextech, Mr. Clemence? You know a lot about the subject.” 

“My father was once involved in hextech experimentation,” replied Clemence, his face suddenly growing stern. The old man was two seats away, coughing loudly and advancing steadily towards the pair.

“That was before he decided to dabble in another field.” The train continued to hum in the silence that followed. The old man turned towards Vincent, his red hands outstretched.

“Can I…ask what that other field was?”

“I’ve had a bad run on the betting today, sirs. Just need a few coins to keep me and my miss afloat for this week, sirs. Have some compassion, sirs.”

“ _Speculation_.”

“Mick shouldn’t have cheated me, sirs. I knew it was best to put my money on the fifth run instead of listening to him, but what can you do when you’ve got fire in your blood, sirs, good liquid fire from Bilgewater? Say, you said you’re from Zaun? Be a good kid and show some kindness to a poor Piltie, can’t you?”

“What do you mea—ah, here, have this then, mister.” Vincent took a small bill from his pocket and offered it to the man. “Please use this for your wife, then.”

“Do _not_ give that man anything.” Clemence’s voice grew hard as he turned away.

“What! Mick cheated me first, and now you cheat me out of my earned money?” The man grabbed the bill out of Vincent’s hand. He raised a fist, ropemarks crisscrossing his knuckles, at Clemence.

“Please calm down—”

“I should introduce you to _the art of speculation_ , Mr. Brandew. This gentleman here is a fine specimen of the craft. It involves plenty of disappearing acts, involving large sums of money given to him by a self-made woman whom he, _surprisingly_ , bullies into submission.” 

“Whaddya mean by that?” The old man was yelling now, much to the consternation of the other passengers. “I don’t bully no one! Shut up!”

“Mr. Clemence…”

“It also involves plenty of illusions, in which people conjure up credit when the disappearing acts become too successful. The final act is when the magician himself disappears from his place of abode, leaving his audience of unfed children starved for substance.”

“You _trash_! You think you’re too good for this place?! For people like _me_? I don’t need your preaching here! I come on this train every day and get goodwill by people who consider me, that’s _right_! I’ve never seen you here before, you scum!”

“Mister, please leave us—”

“Stinking Zaunite _shit_!” The man grabbed Vincent’s collar. “Who’s talking to you?”

A gloved hand latched onto the man’s slowly tightened its grip on the man wrist. “I suggest you curb your tongue against this boy before I take measures against it.” Clemence whispered through gritted teeth. “I’ve certainly had enough of people like you for _two_ lifetimes.”

“Mr. Clemence, please…” Vincent looked desperately from Clemence to the old man, whose eyes were wide with fear. “I-it’s fine. Just…just let the man have the money, just this once.” 

Clemence released his grip; the old man did likewise, muttering various combinations of profanities. The train rattled to a halt (station no. 72, Hexforge Institute). The old man scampered out of the doors as soon as they opened, taking the crumpled note with him, along with the remainder of the equally-flustered passengers.

The two travellers were left alone.

“Mr. Clemence...I-I can’t have you always taking up confrontations for me.” Clemence stared at Vincent. “I mean…I don’t want you to keep putting yourself in these types of situations. I don’t mean to say that I don’t appreciate it or anything, but...It’s not…it’s not _right_. Like yesterday, or this morning. It wouldn’t be fair on your part.” 

 “I am perfectly accustomed to engaging in one-sided dialogues and verbal sparring with my employers, Mr. Brandew. I only suppose that it must be one of the reasons that Sir Jonane has not thrown me out for a lower-paid hire, for he surely takes some amusement in the quips that a servant indulges in during moments of exasperation. Rest assured, Mr. Brandew,” he continued. “Your presence has nothing to do with my temper or decision to speak so strongly against this man.” Vincent lowered his eyes, feeling an uncomfortable flush of heat in his chest.

“I think…maybe you shouldn’t have tried to start a fight with him, Mr. Clemence. The poor man was probably intoxicated. I’ve seen plenty of people like that in Zaun…a lot of the time they’re decent people, just fallen onto some difficult times and need to vent their frustrations in another way.”

“I assume the “other way” that you are referring to is the gambling that that man was evidently partaking in?”

“Even if he was, I don’t think we can assume that he wouldn’t come to his senses later and use the money you give them responsibly. Maybe he simply thought in that moment that gambling was an easy way out of his problems.”

“I think, from my own experience with the effects of such activities, that I am perfectly capable of deducing what his intentions are. I have seen that man lurching about town more often than I see Lord and Lady Jonane—he has the same story and the same excuses each time. I wonder if he is an idiot who lets that Mick cheat him on a daily basis, or if he is an idiot who loses his money after successfully swindling unsuspecting visitors.” 

 “I…I just wanted you to understand. I might not have been better off than that man if Master Selin hadn’t been so generous to me.” Vincent glanced at his shoes, at the way that they distorted the images of the buildings they passed on their polished but evidently rough surface. “I guess that was what moved me to give him something...it was just all too _familiar_.” Clemence stood silently by the doors as the train sped towards the last station.

“Yesterday…you told me about your siblings.”

“Yes.”

“It was wonderful to hear about them. I really enjoyed the story you told about your sister Anaza—the one about the puppy.”

“Yes, it is a favourite story of mine as well.”

“I’m…sorry. That they had to go through that experience.” Clemence turned at him with hard eyes. “But I’m glad that they’re all independent and well-off now. I’m sure…that your father was a good man at heart and wanted the best for your family,” Vincent said by way of reassurance.

“That’s quite enough, Mr. Brandew.” Indignation rose in Clemence’s voice. “I receive plenty of moral preaching from my lord and lady.”

“I—”

“Please refrain from making such judgements on my personal matters.”

 _I’ve offended him_ , he thought dispiritedly. _Someone whom I’ve only befriended yesterday_.

The train halted and gave a steamy hiss in response. 

“We are here.”

Dear reader, let us move away from this uneasy scene between our fellow characters, and take a moment to describe the scenery that met the pair as they tripped over the bustling platforms to the wharves! I assume that you haven’t seen the ocean—at least, you haven’t seen the ocean as it swells and exhales its lapis-hued form alongside some of the finest ships that have sailed in the light of Valoran’s inviting dawn!

Unlike Bilgewater, where you are sure to be overwhelmed by the unsavory fragrance of rotting fish and unwashed men, and where you are sure to be jostled by side guns dangling from worn-out straps and cutlasses scuffed by innumerable duels and robberies, Piltover’s wharves—meticulously crafted from steel filaments—boast clean, open spaces in which well-dressed merchants, sunburnt sailors, and shrieking children gather to undertake their respective business!  

Imagine! Members of Piltover’s upper classes, in various stages of fashion, lounge in the verandas of seaside restaurants, chatting and sipping beverages with high-strung gaiety. Vendors graciously peddle their shiny wares—with none of that pushy attitude from Bilgewater! Large men with bandannas and gold piercings, with tassels on official uniforms, with crusted sailing suits, load or direct or pry open the heavy boxes of cargo that wait on their immobile ships. And in the background, the waves slowly rumble against the massive, golden-tipped gate that shelters the mechanized city from the salty depths. Here is the lifeblood of Piltoverian commerce! Organized, efficient, refined—spiced by the scent of salt and gutterfish, flavoured by the possibility of adventure.

Vincent mutely followed Clemence through the crowd. He had a mind to apologize to his friend, but the older man’s countenance silenced any further discussion. They walked past huge three-masted ships, towering banners that flapped next to silver-gilded buildings, and bridges curving their bronzed figures towards the sea, eventually making their way towards a dilapidated grey building; it sat, slightly sinking on one side, beside a row of sloops that were being attended to by a scruffy boy of thirteen.   

“This is the current Naval Office. You will find your work here. I shall dispose myself to other tasks in the meantime.”

“Wait—” But Clemence had disappeared in the throng. Vincent sighed wearily and looked up at the washed-out two-story front. _It really does need a renovation_ , he thought. _You could mistake this for a back-alley store in Zaun._   

“Can I help you?” The child had sidled up to Vincent, holding his dusty black cap in his hands.

“Ah, yes. I…suppose I’m looking for the person in charge.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m here to talk about the drafts for the new Naval Offices. Is this…where the new offices are going to be?”

“Yeah. They’ll move us out to an outbuildin’ and tear down this one for the new one. What’s your name?”

“Vincent Brandew.”

“Okay. I heard the old guys upstairs talkin’ about you. You come with me.”

Vincent followed the boy into the house. Inside the dimly-lit corridor, the scent of burning wax filled every crevice in the gray-tiled walls. Boots scuffled overhead, accompanied by the drones and loud barks of unseen human voices.

“The main offices are upstairs, you see. But you’re supposed to meet Mr. Wetly here.” The boy darted over the creaking steps until he reached a flimsy wooden door. He peeked into the room, croaked out, “Mr. Vincent Brandew’s here,” and swiftly shut the door. A bellow, as deep and resounding as a whale’s cry, emanated from the room. A flurry of oaths soon followed this perfect note of cetacean imitation, their volume and social severity seemingly increasing with each passing minute. Vincent blushed and looked down to see the boy covering his ears with his dirty hands.

“Don’t worry. He’s an alright person, but he’s like a cannon when he’s bothered in the middle of somethin’.”

“From what I’m hearing and what I’ve been faced with in the past twenty-four hours, I’m going to believe that he’s not very happy that a Zaunite from a lower-class background has actually arrived to work with him,” The boy’s eyes widened. “Though to be honest…I think I’m getting used to such introductions by now. That and the fact that I seem to be having all sorts of problems with the people I’ve been meeting since I came here.”

“I kinda get it,” The boy scratched his head. “Even though I’m not from Zaun. They yell at you and stuff, right? And look at you funny?” Vincent noticed the sizeable red scab above the boy’s left ear.

“Sort of. I hope your boss isn’t yelling at you, or…”

“Doesn’t matter. I can just go outside if he’s shoutin’ again. Plus _this_ wasn’t from him—some sailor threw a bottle at me.” There was a short pause before the boy spoke in a solemn tone. “You know something? Being poor in Piltover is the same as being poor in Zaun or anywhere, I bet—everyone got an excuse to yell or do somethin’ mean to you.”

“Unfortunately, you’re probably right.” Vincent absentmindedly pulled at a cord that dangled from the ceiling. A small bell tinkled and fell on Vincent’s head. The boy stifled a giggle.

“I think…that today I was just a complete idiot on the train. I shouldn’t have acted like I knew what he went through,” Vincent confided, rubbing his head.

“Who?”

“A friend…at least, I hope he’s still willing to remain friends with me after today.”

“I’m sure it’s fine. I’ve seen a lot of sailors hit each other when they’re drunk but they still turn out to be buds.” Vincent winced at the comparison, though he admitted that it was probably more accurate than anything he could have come up with at the moment. 

“Do you…want to be a sailor when you’re older?” The boy grinned, a front tooth missing.

“Not really. I’ve always wanted to be like the engineers in the adverts, ‘cuz they seem like they never get bossed around by other people.” Vincent grimaced at this remark. “But I usually just do the odd jobs that the other sailors don’t like to do here, like leadin’ merchants to the office and fetchin’ boats.” 

“Where’s…your family?” Vincent asked gently.

“Don’t have any left. Old man gambled like crazy”—here, a pang of remorse as Vincent was reminded of his conversation with Clemence—“and the old lady died. This is the best job I could get besides stealing or begging on the trains. I was thinkin’ maybe I could move to Zaun and become a sump-snipe.”

“ _Become_ …a sump-snipe?”

“Yeah. Does it pay alright? I heard you just collect stuff from the Sump.”

“I don’t…that’s not really what that word means.”

“Yeah?”

“The Sump isn’t a place children should be in.” The bitter tang of chem-forge fumes settled unpleasantly on his tongue. A miasma of memories—the booming crunches of the scrap-processing mouth, the cold sharpness of metal poking through his tattered worker’s boots, the acidic grey sludge that hissed behind him as he narrowly avoided the falling chemical debris of the factory—settled once again in his body. He glanced at the boy’s curious eyes, and thought that perhaps this was exactly what Master Selin had felt when he had come across that “sump-snipe” fifteen years ago, half-blinded from the heat of the gases that he worked through each day.

“Are you…apprenticed?”

“Not yet. I don’t think I’ll ever be taken in anyways.”

“I could…maybe…write to Master Selin…”

“What?”

“Find you an apprenticing job…in Zaun.”

“Find me a ‘pprenticing job? In Zaun?” The boy’s eyes lit up. “A _real_ ‘pprenticing job? Working with _real_ tech?”

“Zaun’s…going to be different from what you’re used to at the moment, though. The environment, the people, the work…”

“Who cares? You’re from there, right? If people like you are fine with livin’ there, then that means it ain’t so bad.” The yelling inside the room had ceased almost entirely. “Sounds like Mr. Wetly’s almost ready to see you, by the way.”

“Well, I’m as ready as he is. And yes, but it’s going to take a few years of work. And I have to make arrangements with my master to put you somewhere that isn’t going to land you as a sump-snipe.” 

“But you’re sure it’s _real_ trainin’ and stuff? No gimmicks?” Vincent nodded.

The door swung open. A gaunt man with a crutch and thick eyeglasses appeared, huffing through his frizzled white beard. He took a quick look at Vincent before turning and heading back inside.

“Get in, get IN! I’m not here to entertain guests, Jonane’s name be involved or not! Let’s hurry up with the discussions!”

 “What’s your name?” Vincent whispered.

“Cowl.” The boy whispered back.

“I’ll be here at least for the next few weeks, Cowl. I’ll tell you when I hear back.”

“Okay.” He squeezed Vincent’s hand and scurried out of the hall. Vincent straightened his tie and entered the room just as Mr. Wetly yelled his name.

Vincent found himself in a low-ceilinged square office, the walls plastered over with yellowing wallpaper. Loose bits of paper drifted from their unruly places on a weathered brown desk. A bookcase littered with books, measuring tools, and knickknacks bought from passing sailors took up most of one wall. Wetly had limped to a black couch and sat down, his body pressing against the already-busted seams.     

“So, Brandew, you here to sniff out the premises? Jonane too high ‘n’ mighty to step into our good offices?”

“Actually, Sir Jonane had a meeting…”

“Sure, and I have a date with a Clan lady tonight,” Wetly wagged, his face drawn into a sneer. “Jonane wants to build something that’ll last for _millennia_ , I bet. Let’s just get this done. I may not look it, but I used to be an architect myself. Now I’m stuck with signing unruly sailors into our books. Show me the proof that you were worth hiring over a native Piltie.”

Vincent handed over his blueprints. He noticed how Wetly scrutinised each drawing, scrunching his face and adjusting his eyeglasses whenever his interest was piqued.

“What material were you thinking of using for the foundation?” Wetly asked abruptly.

“W-Well, I would think concrete, maybe mixed with natural materials if we decide upon a more traditional design—agralite could work? It’s both durable and visually pleasing.”

“Using stones might not be a bad idea to spice an official structure like this up, but agralite’s far too heavy for the likes of this harbour. Most of the buildings here are made from concrete, but we’re working on muddier and weaker ground, plus a much larger building at that. I actually think _this_ ,” Wetly grudgingly held up a blueprint of a curved structure supported by four fluted arches, “is pretty decent. But you’ve prioritized style over the substance of the matter. A very _Jonane_ thing to do, I gotta say.”

“So the foundation is the issue, then?”

“Exactly.”

“Um…It’s my first time at the harbour, so I wanted to ask you something. I noticed some Bilgewaterian sailors dragging a lot of crates that had metal balls in them, which I assume are…for weapons. Does…does Piltover usually trade in ammunition?” Wetly raised an eyebrow.

“We’ve been trading in platum with Bilgewater since before these docks were built. It’s a metal that weighs a handful and is about as reactive as a member of a Piltie Clan is towards Zaun. Bilgewaterian sailors usually use platum in their light cannons when they’re in a toughie, and launch them as fast-moving explosive projectiles. Not sure what you’d want with those.”

Vincent blushed but continued, albeit with growing confidence. “Then…if it is as heavy as you say, then it would seem that the fibres used for the pier can sustain relatively large amounts of weight without bending. And…and the fact that the city has built the pier entirely from this material, despite the knowledge that it would export highly combustible ammunition via sea transport, shows that it is effectively resistant to potential fire and overheating, even as it can withstand continuous erosion from seawater. Is it possible…to use these fibres not only as the foundation, but also as the skeleton of the more complex design you were interested in?”

“Good observations, kid.” Wetly grinned. “For a first-timer in this place. One problem. These fibres are rare as hell, and the city’s Industrial Council has got complete control over their production—it ain’t likely they’ll give a bunch to some civilian’s architectural project. They’re also not as pliable as you’d think for the skeleton of a more curved design, so they wouldn’t work for framing.”

Vincent was silently fidgeting with his sleeves during this response, when he suddenly sat himself down on the couch. Wetly raised an eyebrow at the sudden forwardness of the young man. “Then, I have another proposition.” Wetly nodded, visibly interested. “A few years back, I came across an article that discussed how a group of Zaunite and Piltoverian researchers had just finished joint experimentation on raschium ores,” Vincent explained, recalling his studies in Zaun. “From my understanding, raschium is a common solid by-product of the chem-tech plants that used to exist in the lower regions of Zaun. It’s accumulated over the decades and crystallized into large rockbeds that essentially hinder movement into and out of these lower layers. However,” Vincent hurried on, noticing the doubt creep across Wetly’s features. “The extensive tests that these researchers did showed that raschium emitted zero radiation and no chemical waste. It’s essentially a clean product. They also revealed that it could withstand extreme liquid and even chemical exposure, and has a flexibility that rivals most metals. The scientists proposed using it as the main material for new hydraulic transporters, but this was eventually rejected because the council opted to use a cheaper substance. Zaun’s supply of raschium has just been torn down and ignored ever since, because the current council tends to…brush aside new ideas. Piltover’s higher technological community also hasn’t shown much interest in working with Zaun’s researchers to develop this material, since the study of and investment in hextech became popular right around that time.”

“You’re saying we should import raschium for _this_ building? Is Jonane willing to spend more money on items we don’t exactly need? Items that Piltover hasn’t _cared_ enough about?”

“Jonane wants to build something that will stand for “millennia,” right?” Vincent pressed, with an energy that surprised even himself. “If it’s possible…to show that raschium, something that even Zaun has neglected to this day, can benefit _both_ cities in terms of construction and even energy supply, then why don’t we set an example? Isn’t that…” A vision of a million lights, their rays descending upon the beautiful metropolitan structures that held their bodies in the clouds, flashed in his mind. “Isn’t that what Piltover  _is_? A city of…of wonder and progress?” Wetly frowned, taking off and cleaning his glasses. His round black eyes stared unflinchingly at Vincent.

“And what do you gain? This building is for a Piltie even _I_ can’t stand. What do _you_ get as a Zaunite?”

“I…I get to help Zaun...to see the possibility…of its own _prosperity_. As a city…that carries the resources and potential to get there.” Vincent admitted quietly. “If I can secure it, even through such complicated means, then I’ll gladly do so.”

And so the conversation—one that was filled with colourful debate and dizzying technicalities, one that enabled our Vincent to feel that wonderful flicker of creative passion tinge his mood once again—continued late into the afternoon. As the sun stretched lazily over the violet skies, and the docks buzzed with greater fervour under the warm gleams of hexlight that dotted this particular side of town, Vincent emerged from the dingy rooms of the Naval Offices, flushed from fatigue and ceaseless thoughts.

_I need to readjust the design we agreed on to fit the smaller lot that this building is sitting on; I should confirm with Sir Jonane tonight about the plan. I also need to write to Master Selin about Cowl. Maybe he could look into the state of the available raschium supplies. And Mr. Clemence…_

“Why, you’re walking like a Piltoverian again!” exclaimed a familiar voice. Vincent turned sharply around, to see two unusually bright eyes shining back at him.


	4. Ilsa

When the front door slammed shut that morning, Ilsa was fiddling with her tools; she did not hear the door rumble back into its frame, for her mind was preoccupied with the possibility of greeting a guest. Any guest would have sufficed, though she calculated that a visit from a particularly successful merchant would guarantee her a decent profit for the next three months. _But any guest would do_ , she told herself.

She was unusually agitated. The slightest creak of the floorboards irked her to no end. She was alone in that tiny room, in that huge house—her brother had resolved to find Wetly at the Naval Offices ( _most likely_ , she thought, _with the intention of trying to win his approval, though a man like Wetly didn’t waste time on those without potential_ ), leaving her waiting yet again for their father’s return. So she ground her teeth and waited. Outside, the silver spires of the Collegiate pierced bubbling blue holes through the fleecy clouds.

 _God, they’re hideous_ , she thought. _Just like the rest of Piltover._ She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. _A city of glass, heated by the fires of ambition_. The thread frayed under her dirty nails. Her heart pounded faster as she watched it unfurl into a thousand strands. _A city of illusions, as fragile as the shards of a shattered window._ She could easily break the window and reach out, her hands grasping at the air that swirled around those monuments of progress. She could imagine it now: she would balance on the sill, her arms splayed like the hands of the steam clock at the Hexforge Institute. She would look upwards and lean slightly forward, the screams of her neighbours clawing pleasantly at the irritation that gnawed at her chest. She’d think about how visible she would be—Carley would see likely her at the docks, if he had kissed enough ass to be granted a place on the mainmast of a Piltoverian ship. She might even get an apology from her father, his face a speck among a throng of terrified, plump Patriarchs.

That would be fun. At least, it would distract her for a while.

It was only when the thuds of heavy boots made themselves welcome on the winding staircase leading to her father’s study did Ilsa snap out of her motionless reverie. She listened for a moment, then rushed out of the room. She sprinted lightly up the steps, stopping just before the door. She could make out the voices of her father and—lucky stars! It was Jonane! She pressed her ear to the door, quietly fumbling with the mail slot as she did so.

“I’m grieving.” It was her father. “I can’t believe I’m grieving.”

“It’s only been a week, Lae.” Jonane responded calmly. “It’s normal for people to mourn even months after a death, hey? That’s just how it is sometimes.”

“But for _her_ , damn it! I’m not unhappy,” retorted her father. “Not unhappy that she’s gone. Those children know how I feel. I’m miserable. I’ve been miserable since she was alive. You know too; you’ve experienced her _fits_.” Jonane tsked reproachfully.

“There, that’s enough! You made your decision when you married her. Didn’t I tell you then? Nothing good could come of a marriage between a Patriarch and a woman of lesser means! That’s why I chose _my_ pretty dear accordingly. She admires me greatly—”—a groan came from her father—“And we were both of the same station; still _are_ , to this very day. Thus we avoided those nasty quarrels about class and the like. A marriage isn’t the same as recruiting a worker or apprentice, old friend,” Jonane continued solemnly. “I, for one, always prided myself on my ability to seek out talent and treasures from all corners of life, but even I understand that there are situations in which we can do nothing but accept the social principles that our society is mired in.”

Cursing quietly, Ilsa adjusted herself on the cold hardwood floor and peeked inside. She caught sight of the heavyset figure of her father, puffing at a large wooden pipe. Jonane was sitting in an armchair by the window, watching Lae rub his bloodshot eyes with a sickly yellow hand.

“But what am I going to do? Suppose my…my _image_ wanes because of this?”

“Whatever do you mean? You are now simply a widower with two children. That has no bearing on your position in the Court.”

“But the Chamberlain’s always shooting me those nasty looks…I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’m so _unhappy_.” Lae whined, lazily blowing circles in the air. “And that girl of mine, she’s so much like _her_ , even if she hates her with every bone in her body.” Ilsa inhaled sharply, feeling the blood pound through her temples. “She’s a schemer at heart.”

“The child is only disillusioned.” Jonane interjected. “She should pay respects to her mother, of course, but you couldn’t possibly blame her for anything.” The man inhaled the curls of smoke with desperation, his eyes wandering wildly.

“I’ll agree that she hasn’t made me so _miserable_ , you know, unlike _her_. But she’s too… unpredictable! You don’t know what kinds of plans she has—and that _tortures_ me!”

“It hurts you, my friend, to not know what she’s thinking?” Jonane responded wryly.

“Yes! What if her mind is becoming like her mother’s? I don’t even have an inkling if that’s the case! _Transforming_ …” Lae’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Into a _deranged_ creature!”

A crack startled the two men. Ilsa stood in the doorway, strands of hair freeing themselves from her short plait. Lae shrunk fearfully in his seat, his eyes filled with loathing.

“A-aren’t you ashamed, Ilsa? Eavesdropping on a guest!”

“Less shame than two trainwrecks who never cared about their children.”

“Ilsa…” Rings of smoke floated above her father’s swollen eyelids. Jonane had stood up, and was gesturing towards the door. Ilsa followed him out, her eyes flashing sparks at the pitiful Patriarch.

“So, my dear,” Jonane spoke quietly as he closed the door. “Is the security apparatus finished?”

“Yes. I added fingerprint detection, just as you requested. However, the memory is only large enough to account for two sets of fingerprints. And I didn’t add any hextech materials, in consideration for your collection.”

“How excellent! And _here_ is your payment.” Jonane pulled out a chip, engraved with the crest of the city Treasury. “10,000 yauls. You know Mayar, correct? Talk to him anytime you want to withdraw funds. Just show him this chip; he’ll take it once all the money has been depleted from your private account. You’ll also be glad to know that the auction went off nicely,” Jonane sniffed. “I found a buyer for the spinal braces. 2000 yauls is the highest bid he gave for the product.”

“My contact in Zaun has assured me that her offer has no need of a series of middlemen.” Ilsa remarked, pocketing the chip. “I’ve given her 4000 yauls as a starting price, which she seems quite taken with.”

“Well…he’s an old bugger, and you know how age tends to imbue one with all sorts of undesirable qualities like stinginess—” Jonane began evasively.

“And what means have you provided for my brother?” Ilsa continued in the same businesslike tone.

“I have a mind to give Carley the opportunity to work as a merchant’s apprentice on one of my personal ships.”

“Make it one that doesn’t require him to come back too often, if that’s possible.”

“Ah, Ilsa, you really do have a sense of humour. I will ensure your brother’s safety.” Jonane gave a mock bow. “And you have no need to worry about your father. I will intercede on your behalf, particularly with regards to your promised fortune.” Ilsa glared at him. “That is, if you will continue to work for our… _mutual interest_.” There was a pause. The sound of Lae’s incomprehensible laments drifted pathetically from the room.

“I’ll be investing part of the money in more supplies, so I’ll be expecting you to fetch a much better price for the braces.” Ilsa turned and walked down the stairs. Jonane’s voice floated after her.

“A pleasure to continue business with you, Ilsa Elusia.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cobwebs lined the corners of the dark wood, their slimy coolness trickling across the little girl’s forehead. She touched her trembling red hand against the wood, feeling the hot blood coagulate on the damp surface. Her head was spinning.

“Are you ready to apologize?” A woman’s voice—hoarse from years of screaming and cursing, cracked by the arguments that had given the neighbours a source of gossip for months, shot through with inexpressible hate and contempt—spoke on the other side of the closet, as a click locked the doors firmly in place.

“For _what_?”

“Why, for breaking the dishes. Why are you always kicking and lashing out at your mother?”

“Actually,” Ilsa corrected, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t kick you until after you put your nails through my arm.”

“I did that to stop you from hurting yourself more.” The voice replied. “You know how hard it is for me to see you like this. You shouldn’t always think about your own feelings, Ilsa. A girl your age should be mature enough to know that other people have worries too. Look at the bigger picture. Your bad attitude today ended up breaking the dishes.”

“No, you’re twisting everything again.” Ilsa pressed on, her head throbbing. She was not going to give her mother the initiative. “Today, I was developing the proto-chip for the spinal braces. I did not bother anyone, but you still came into my room and started screaming.”

“I was yelling because you broke the dishes, Ilsa. Oh honey, all that work has gotten you _mixed up_ …”

“When I told you kindly to leave me alone, you grabbed me. When I was struggling, I kicked the table and the dishes fell. Then you locked me here.” Ilsa peeped out of the slight crack in the door. “ _That’s_ what happened.”

“Ilsa…why is it so hard for you to say sorry? Our neighbour’s talented little superstar—Jemma, you know her—always listens to her parents when they have serious advice to give. I’m not saying you’re a bad child, but you should take notice of the good things that your friends are doing.” A note of venom creeped into the woman’s voice. “If you say sorry, you’ll be showing Mama that you can be better than Jemma.”

“Jemma basically lets her parents walk over her. And I won’t apologize when I know I didn’t do anything wrong.” There was a pause. “Do you know what I think? I think you torment me and Carley because you don’t like it when we do things you can’t control.”

 “ _No_!” Her mother suddenly screamed. “You’ve always been _selfish_. You always think you’re better than your own mother. Your father makes me _miserable_ and all you can fix are your _fucking_ projects!” She banged the closet door, causing a dustpan to spill its contents on the frightened child. 

“Let me out.” The cobwebs dropped closer. She could feel them stick to her face, unravelling as they dropped slowly down. “I didn’t do anything wrong, I swear.” A cold fear began stirring up within her. “Please, don’t yell. I…I’m just telling you the truth.”

“ _Fuck_ you! And _fuck_ any apology that comes out of your mouth! I’ll show you what you did wrong!” The sound of her mother storming out of the room; the muffled sound of her slamming objects onto the ground; the sound of her returning, with the small yelps of another child following close behind. Ilsa gasped and peered out of a small slit in the closet. Her brother’s blue eyes were filled with tears as he struggled to remove his mother’s fist from his hair. A bruise was blossoming on his pale cheek.

“ _Carley_! Let him _go_!” Ilsa pounded on the door, ignoring the items that clattered on top of her.

“Carley,” her mother was once again speaking with that sickening gentleness. “Does it hurt you when Mama _has_ to be angry?” Carley mumbled inaudibly. The fist jerked upwards. Carley screamed a “yes.”

“That’s a good boy. Now, Carley, if you want Mama to stop being angry, I want you to take _this_ apart.” Ilsa’s body went numb when she saw her computerized chip in her mother’s hand.

“No! I’ve worked so hard on that… _don’t_ …” Ilsa suddenly felt the pain in her wrist. She slumped against the door

“Ilsa…” The voice cooed. “Don’t you want the _best_ for your brother? He’s hurting, all because you wouldn’t own up to your mistakes. See how your actions can affect other people? Show me now, show me that you aren’t _selfish_ , girl. _Apologize_.”

“Carley…” Ilsa saw her little brother, bleeding from his scalp. “I’m not…I’m not selfish…” She moaned. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. “You…don’t…” She felt wet droplets dribble humiliatingly down her nose; she could feel her mother glowering on the other side. She balled her hands into impotent fists and brought them against the doors with all her might. They did not give way.

“I’m _not_ selfish.” She uttered with finality.

She stifled her weeping as her mother’s hands forced a ballpeen hammer into the boy's hands. Her own hands clasped around the child's, and brought the tool down on the tiny chip. Ilsa counted ten weighty cracks in succession. After that, there was silence, broken only by the sound of two children, one whimpering with physical pain, the other quietly grasping at the silken strands that had draped themselves over her tears. If only there was a window that she could have climbed out of at that moment—she wouldn’t have cared if she had dropped headfirst onto the ground.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A blade of light sliced across a worktable covered with loose metal bits. She looked up from her models to see a young man, his face twisted by an ugly grimace, standing by the door.

“You’ll go blind like this.”

“I didn’t think you’d stoop so low as to speak with me again.” The young man closed his eyes and banged his forehead on the wooden frame, anger suddenly clouding his brow.

“You could be more respectable, Ilsa. Get married, get a fucking _life_. Stop cooping yourself up in this room.” He gestured towards a rack of cylindrical tubes lying neatly on the table with disgust. “And stop selling these damned things in this city! If I hadn’t stayed quiet when Correlas and his men were doing their investigation, you’d have been busted with Shimmer-trafficking a long time ago.”

“Isn’t being given your own ship to command enough for you, Carley? Or are you back to lecture your _less-than-respectable_ sister, perhaps with the intention of asking me to obtain another… _special position_ for you?”

“I don’t need you to do me any favours, not with the kinds of people you associate with,” her brother responded huffily, his face reddening with embarrassment. “When I found out, I felt sick, Ilsa. You hear me? I was sick to my _stomach_ , knowing that you’ve been involved with all of _this_.” He spat, narrowly missing the sensitive hexdrill lying in an open case.

“ _Don’t_.” Ilsa hissed, shutting the case delicately. “Taste a bit of money and luxury and you’ve already forgotten why I even started this in the first place—typical of you.”

“You could _change_ yourself.” Carley retorted hotly. “Stop testing out your contraptions on the street and learn to be _normal_. People see you and think about how _worthless_ the Elusias must be, to let a marriageable daughter behave like a crazed scientist. Let them know about what you’re _actually_ up to in Piltover’s underground, and they’ll shun us for life.”

“Fine talk to say, coming from someone who owes his successes thus far to his “crazed scientist” of a sibling. You know who’s been paying every single expense that you and Father have racked up since that _she_ died, _correct_? You realize that I still have to grovel before the Chamberlain—the same man who had you thrashed after you threatened to expose his affair with that _bitch_ , remember _that?_ — _every month_ to maintain Father’s position as a noted patriarch in this city? You understand that I’d rather be doing anything else than selling _my_ blueprints and inventions to greasy, fat-fingered “inventors” who have about as much potential as the filth I sweep up from the corners of this godforsaken house. You can afford to walk as you do—” Ilsa said, sneering at the tacky gold décor dangling from her brother’s waistcoat. “Because you don’t feel the moral weight that comes with the objects you wear, you ignore the fact that I’ve essentially lost all concern for what your high-minded status-seekers think about my _respectability_ , and you _should be reminded_ ”—here Ilsa stood up, her eyes flashing with malice—“that you won’t gain _anything_ by attempting to direct the strands I’ve set up. Leave them to your poor sister—she’ll prevent you from getting tangled.” 

“Then _stop_ it, why don’t you? Do something _else_ to prop up this family, if you’re “selfless” and you “care.” Stop selling your stuff on the black market and get some patents from the Collegiate, if you’re as _real_ an inventor as you think.” Ilsa gave a sharp laugh.

“It’s been said that people can spend a lifetime getting to know the place they were born in,” she began, turning back to her work. “I see you haven’t made much progress.”

“What do you mean by _that_?”

“This city soars upwards to escape its own darkness. But the closer it gets to the sun, the greater its shadow becomes.”

“You’re crazy.” Carley concluded with finality. “You...you should have died that day too.”

Ilsa glanced out the window, her hands trembling in silent fury, as the blade of light narrowed to a wedge, then a sliver, then to nothing.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moon was slowly crawling towards its nighttime altar when the couple cleared away from the docks. They had been walking slowly, chatting and listening to the waves slosh against the hulls of the moored ships. Red-faced sailors, their shirts fragranced with warm alcohol, passed the pair, their laughs resounding through that amphitheatre of constellations. The woman with amber eyes listened with great interest to the young man, as he overcame his initial hesitancy and eagerly began discussing his architectural plans. Ah, youth! How simple is your enthusiasm! When faced with uncertainty, you find happiness in the most insignificant of conversations, forgetting, however momentarily, even the trials of the past!

“So, _imposter Piltie_ —that’s the last time, I promise. I’ll stop teasing you about your mannerisms.” Ilsa chortled good-humouredly at Vincent’s hurt expression. “You’ve got an impressive amount covered for a day’s work.”

“Only in theory…” Vincent responded, stumbling over a wayward plank as they walked; Ilsa’s laughs attracted the attention of several passers-by. “I’ll… need to confirm with my patron on the design and the materials.”

“And who might your patron be?”

“Sir Jonane. Ah, your picture…that is, in the gallery…I was surprised…to see you again—there—after we bumped into each other yesterday. I mean…” A cruel smile flashed suddenly across the woman’s face. _She’s…unpredictable_ , thought Vincent, _The one minute she’s laughing, the next she’s got such a pensive look. She must have a lot on her mind…_

“Yes, unfortunately we all had to primp ourselves for _that_ picture. I’m surprised Jonane still keeps it in his gallery; anyone could see that it isn’t the… _best_ representation of a Patriarch’s family.”

“…You should come visit.” Vincent blushed at his frankness. “The place is a little...devoid of people.”

“I get it. Jonane and his wife can be nuisances. Unfortunately, I’m busy overseeing my brother’s accounts at the moment, hence why I came to the docks. But perhaps I’ll drop in and say hello to you and Clemence.”

“Ah, you know…? He’s a good man.” Vincent averted his gaze. _I should find Mr. Clemence after this, at least before he retires for the night…that means I’ll need to go back soon..._

“He is. You’re chums already, eh? A bit stiff, that one, but less deceptive than Jonane. Anyways, I might drop by sometime in the next few weeks. There’ll be another auction soon.”

“Another…auction?”

“Yes, an auction of ideas and inventions. They take place frequently in the upper echelons of this city, though the growth of transparency and a competent police force seems to have curbed this somewhat.” She sighed dramatically. “I wonder how long Jonane can keep up a farce like this without losing himself!” Vincent was silent, processing this new information about his employer.

“Miss Elusia…I don’t understand what you…do you mean to say that Sir Jonane is involved in…”

“I want to ask you something, Vincent. And just call me Ilsa.” She broke in with a serious tone, as they passed into a narrow alley filled with peddlars and cafes. “What are you working for?” The moon hung like a pendulum, undisturbed by the ceaseless activity of the city that it observed from its dark throne.

“Well…I’ve actually…had more than one chance to think about that since yesterday…”

“Really! And did you find our collision useful in that endeavour?”

“I did. I was…surprised by how you reacted to what I said.” Vincent admitted, smiling shyly. “And that might have led me to think more about my goals as I met more people.”

“Ah, that’s because you were so _pure_! I know I probably scared you when I started crying yesterday. I’m sorry. But I was just so happy. I was happy because someone finally saw my work for what it was _originally_ meant to be. A hobby.” Ilsa beamed. “ _You_ saw that I was, underneath it all, working for _myself_ , rather solely for others. _You_ saw that I was taking pride and pleasure in the _act_ of creating and experimenting because I simply _could_. Such an idea immediately _resonated_ with you, because you yourself, if my guess is correct, have expectations to fulfill and a desire to do things for the “greater good”--meaning that you see this city as a place where you can make that possible, and its people as like-minded peers.”

“I…I _do_ want to help out Zaun develop…with what I can learn and accomplish here in Piltover,” Vincent replied. “You know something? I’ve told this to several people over the course of the few days I’ve been here. And now…I’ll tell you, because I think…” Two pools of amber light stared unflinchingly at him. “I think that we can understand each other better that way. And I’d…like to be your friend.” Vincent glanced at the moon, at the way it mirrored the cool gaze of the person beside him. “I guess I was too high-strung when we first met, so I’m sorry if I was rude to you. I…don’t want to have any more misunderstandings with other people; my behaviour this morning…taught me that well enough.”

“I’d like to be your friend too.” Ilsa replied, as they weaved through the crowd of late-night shoppers. “But I also want to challenge you.”

“Challenge…?”

“Don’t take offence—I’ve simply lost a bit of my former curiosity about the world, so when I am confronted with something I’m interested in, I tend to be a bit more upfront than what you’re probably used to. I’d really like to know what brought you here, Vincent, I’m not joking. And I want to have a debate of ideas. You’re such a straightforward and innocent person, you know.”

“Is that such a bad thing? I feel like…I could say the same about you. I mean,” Vincent smiled gently. “Everything you’re feeling shows itself on your face.”

“Really?” They exited the alley and found themselves in an empty open-air plaza. “Most people tend to say the opposite, that I’m good at hiding my true intentions. Perhaps we’re not so different in our personalities, then, but the same can’t necessarily be said about our beliefs.” 

“W-well…I believe that I can acquire more skills here, and hopefully use that knowledge, or find funds and initiate projects, to help Zaun. That’s my main goal, at least. I don’t think…that that would be antagonistic to your values?”

“Not antagonistic, but maybe a bit too idealistic for me. Have you ever thought that such a goal cannot flourish in place like this? Individuals who are more experienced with the finer details of Piltover might call you naïve, Vincent.”

“But…” The moon’s rays carved themselves into the plaza’s stone pillars. “This place…it’s where people come for opportunities, to trade, to learn, to create. Even if…even if their ideas of success don’t align with my own, and even if the attitudes of _some_ Piltoverians aren’t the best…I still believe that dreams can exist here. You yourself acknowledge that you started inventing as a hobby, to prove what _you_ could do, so…doesn’t that show that I’m not the only one here who still sees the world as a space of possibility?”

Ilsa clapped her hands, her eyes reflecting the shimmer of the moonbeams that traced their patterns on the tiles under their feet. “So we’re naïve together! How nice! But do we each have our own _kind_ of naiveté? _Or_ ,” Ilsa continued, winking mischievously. “Do we share the _same_ naiveté, thereby effectively receiving one-half of all the naiveté that is known to exist in this city thus far? There must be an equation for things like this, don’t you think?”

“Or perhaps being naïve is like being a particular blood type.” Vincent laughed. A pleasant breeze brushed by the two young people, stirring them into unexpected playfulness. “It might be more accurate to represent it as a genetic rather than a mathematical property. I might have caught your naiveté when we bumped into each other, like a cold.”

“Ha! So it seems I’m the original host! How much time, doctor, before it spreads to other unsuspecting Piltoverians and Zaunites?”

“Hmmm…” Vincent stroked his chin with exaggerated motions. “I believe we have enough time to find a cure.”

“What are the symptoms?” Ilsa waved her hands and pretended to take notes.

“So far, we have…straightforwardness and innocence.”

“Straightforwardness and innocence? Then we’ll never know if an upper-class Piltoverian is ill or not! Oh, the tragedy!” Ilsa sighed dramatically and began speaking in a nasally tone, her accent punctuating the words that squeaked out of her frame. “DOCtor, what will we _dooo_? The _backbONE_ of our society, possibly _unwell_! WHOO of us could have guessed that such a terrible _thiing_ would befall Pilt-ooover?”

“We’ll…ah…we’ll ask them questions.” Vincent clutched at his sides as he laughed at Ilsa’s imitation.

“What sorts of questions?”

“ _Straightforward_ and _innocent_ questions. Questions like…questions like… _Why did you come to this city?_ and _What are you working for?_ ” Vincent stopped suddenly and bit his lip. _Perhaps I went too far_ , he thought. _It sounds like I’m mocking her._ But Ilsa, to his surprise, laughed heartily and began dancing across the square, the silhouette of her braid slicing through the thick strands of moonlight that dangled in the air.

“Vincent, you’re _sly_! I didn’t expect you to be so sardonic! But that’s wonderful! No wonder you got so far with the likes of Jonane and Wetly.” He breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’m sorry…I thought I had my foot in my mouth again.”

“Oh, stop apologizing! We should add “quick to feel like they did something wrong in ordinary social situations” to our list, by the way you’re acting.” She stopped dancing and walked back towards Vincent, her heels clipping across the grooves etched into the cement. “You’re not guilty of anything.”

“Ilsa…” Amber pools of light focused keenly towards him. “I was wondering…do you…have many of these kinds of conversations? I mean…do you normally ask people what their goals and ideals are? I’m not saying I dislike it or anything, it’s just…um…I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who would open up so directly with a person.”

“I suppose it comes from the straightforwardness. You and I are the only infected subjects so far, so we don’t have many varied symptoms.”

“And I’m not…I _can’t_ be…the only one who’s…idealistic, right?” Ilsa frowned.

“Well, you’re the only one who seems willing to defend those ideals, far beyond the limit of what a reasonable person would do. I get that sense from you. That’s kind of the reason why I wanted to debate tonight.”    

“Do you think I’m unreasonably idealistic?” Vincent mused.

“You didn’t give up your ideals when I, a person of some social consequence in this city, told you that they might be naïve?”

“But I don’t think that means I would…defend certain ideas to an extreme. Most people would probably respond the way I did.”

“Fine, I’ll concede that. You’re still a fresh face. But what if I told you,” Ilsa lowered her voice ominously. “That the very act of you arriving to work in Piltover— _specifically_ for someone like Jonane—shows me that your _ambition_ is a selfish one at its core? And I don’t mean to say this to dissuade you. I simply wanted to state my view.”

“What…what do you mean?”

“Here, let me explain. You likely had the opportunity to apply for good positions in Zaun, didn’t you? And you most certainly had the chance of working on less reputable, but equally immersive, projects in Piltover? After all, this is the “city of opportunity,” as you say, and such opportunities come at a dime a dozen for hardworking and talented individuals who don’t seem to put their salary as their top priority. Weren’t _those_ opportunities _enough_? _This_ is what puzzles me. You’ve told me that you’re working under Wetly, under Jonane, under a system that (as any native Piltie like myself can see) essentially forces Zaunites like you to endure social humiliation, and you’re supposedly doing all this for Zaun, but if you really cared about Zaun, you wouldn’t have _left_ , would you? You would have stayed and found a solution. Why circumvent the issues that you’re concerned with by going to Piltover? Why not work at Zaun’s College of Techmaturgy to advocate your idea of using raschium as a new building material? Do you really think that a glutted merchant like Jonane knows the last thing about architecture or cares about Zaun comes to develop its resource potential in the future?” Vincent stood speechlessly, as Ilsa looked contemplatively at the sky.

“I’m not saying you’re morally wrong, Vincent. I just think we’re all selfish in our own ways. People study this kind of thing, how humans behave as a species. I can’t give you an answer as to why we think the way we do. But if there’s one thing that’s predictable and consistent about us, it’s that we’re naturally selfish beings. Even the decision to care for your children is egotistical in a sense—perhaps you expect them to become something worthwhile for your sake. For you, I speculate that you chose the path you did because you, and whomever has placed these expectations on you, _know_ that Zaun doesn’t offer much by way of a well-rounded future. Or perhaps you wished to _separate_ yourself from Zaun, to put yourself ahead somewhere else that doesn’t keep you in a place you might not want to live in all of your life—all very relatable ideas to have, I might add.”

“I agree that…that people…can’t be entirely selfless, based on their circumstances. But that doesn’t mean they’re inherently selfish. And you’re…you’re _wrong_ to think that I don’t see a future for myself in Zaun.”

“So you believe that you fit into a different mould?”

“I don’t know…right now. But from the way you’re talking, it’s almost as if you’re assuming that selfishness is…is somehow… _ingrained_ in our very being? Or…or are you saying social needs are what make us selfish?”

“Interesting. I hadn’t actually considered that particular element of the issue.”

“Do you think it’s selfish to want something for yourself? I mean…I admit that that’s what I want. I want to get better at what I do, but does that make me completely selfish? Does that erase my desire to want to help Zaun?” Vincent felt himself getting heated.

“In some ways, yes. You want to improve _yourself_ by experiencing this city firsthand, rather than stay in Zaun. You can frame it however your like, but _this_ is your first goal. Any positive consequences that are introduced to Zaun itself are byproducts of that goal. Similarly, I don’t conceptualize my work as a hobby anymore, Vincent. I see it as a means of _survival_ in a city of _opportunism_ —while it might bring some new device into the field of technology, that doesn’t mean I’m being selfless. In fact, I see selflessness as an expression of privilege. In essence, people _can_ break free of their inherent selfishness, but only temporarily, if they have some material or moral means to do so. Think of how a gambler treats his money when he's lucky: he becomes a spendthrift of generosity. But that doesn't erase his fundamental selfishness at heart, one that's informed by the need to value his desire for money and the thrill of winning over everything else.”

“But gambling is often an addiction, something that a person can't control. Do you believe that these people _only_ think of themselves? Do you believe that people can never actually break free of this? You really and truly believe that even the _kindest parent_ is somehow self-interested at their very core?”

“I mean, even saints indulge in their own martyrdom, don’t they?” Vincent winced at the crassness of the statement. “Anyways, you’re free to disagree. I just wanted to push the idea out there, that’s all.” A long pause hung in the air, tense and inexpressible. The moon hung in this same air, dangling by invisible threads above the city’s colourful lights.

“I…I do disagree with you, Ilsa.” Vincent fidgeted, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. “Honestly, I… _can’t_ agree with you. I don’t think that people are as you say they are. In fact, I kind of see it in the opposite way, that we’re inherently good, but it’s events and influences that make us change. But…” They were walking slowly out of the moon’s rays. “I don’t get the impression that you’re doing this for no reason, or simply to…to laugh at the person you’re asking these questions to. I…I need some time to think over what we talked about. And then I’ll prove to you that…that there’s another way.”  

“Another way…” Ilsa muttered, her eyes narrowing. “I’d be surprised if you could convince me; I’ve come to see this city as more glass than steel. See to it that you’re not blinded by its brilliance.”

“I will.” Vincent said firmly. A strand of tension was pulled tautly between the pair. They walked, each thinking their own unknowable thoughts, until they reached the residential areas of the city.

“And what will you do now?” Ilsa said, finally breaking the silence. 

“Now? Now I’ll…go back to work, I suppose. I’ll talk to Jonane about the project, I’ll draw up more blueprints, I’ll write home, I’ll apologize to Mr. Clemence...” Ilsa looked at him with curiosity. “I’ll be doing what I came here for.”

“And will you be thinking about our conversation tonight?” They had reached Southley Lane. Vincent turned to face the woman with the unusually bright eyes.

“Of course.”

 


End file.
